


VIBE CHECK!

by DeHeerKonijn



Series: like, comment, subscribe [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Modern Setting, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, communicating :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27394594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/pseuds/DeHeerKonijn
Summary: Legolas is an influencer who receives an unexpectedly steamy package in the mail. Gimli isn't jealous about it. He’s not. He’snot...he just wishes they’d been sent literally anything else.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Series: like, comment, subscribe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2183949
Comments: 46
Kudos: 291
Collections: Gigolas FuckFest 2020





	VIBE CHECK!

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t actually know the terms under which online personalities receive free shit. I also still don’t understand what a vibe check is. I’m old, I took some liberties.
> 
> This fic was written for Gigolas Fuckfest 2020 for the prompt “Modern AU, Legolas has an entire advent calendar's worth of dildos that Gimli, until now, has been too shy to try for himself.” and honestly...it diverged almost immediately haha so if you think that prompt sounds great you won’t find it here, but you should check out PointlesslyPoetic’s [_no patience for virtue_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27283885) which is way more faithful to the prompt and is a fabulous smut!
> 
> Thanks to [RoseLightFairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy) for the generous beta, and thank you [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson) for organizing - we can never have enough gigos smut in the world!  
> All images and graphics made by my own sweaty little hands - please do not repost them!

“And how is this not creepy?” Gimli asks incredulously for the hundredth time. He’s going to have premature wrinkles before he’s eighty, but the situation warrants it, in his opinion.

There, on their coffee table, in their living room, in the home that he and Legolas share as _two married people_ , sits an open cardboard box, bits of packing paper strewn about. Inside is another box in lurid green with _~Second Wife Series~_ printed across the top, and inside _that_ box is a sleek, silver carrying case, the lid of which is cracked open.

“Companies send me things all the time,” Legolas says, also for the hundredth time, though Gimli can tell he’s starting to get annoyed. Attitude aside, what Gimli _can’t_ tell is why anyone would receive a random parcel from a stranger, _unsolicited_ , find it full of sex toys, and think - _Oh, sweet!_

Gimli snorts. “Yeah, companies send you normal things. Gift baskets - ePhone accessories. Protein powders! Not ” he peers down into the case “— _The Kinslayer_ in Boatswain Blue. You don’t even vlog about this sort of product!”

Legolas makes a tsk-sound as he methodically flattens and stacks the crumpled kraft paper into neat piles, to be given later to the birds to rip up for enrichment.

“Technically, meleth, this was addressed to us both —see? Look, the card’s embossed.”

Gimli remains skeptical, and it shows. Legolas rolls his eyes.

”House of Finwe is a very respectable brand, not some weirdo stalker with a body pillow of me. Whoever this Cele’ is in Marketing they probably just, I dunno, saw how much engagement our honeymoon pics got and hoped I’d give them a cheeky plug. Oh, and speaking of—!” Legolas’ hand dives delightedly into the box.

Welp, just another bunch of gadgets Gimli expects to sit in the back of the closet until the end of time. He gives his common sense-less husband up for a bad job. Legolas might be beautiful, but clearly when one spends so much time carefully curating an online presence, one loses their grip on reality in exchange. It does assuage Gimli’s concerns slightly that the broad selection of toys are definitely factory-sealed. 

He checked. Twice.

—

The sofa is Legolas’ favorite place to get handsy. Their living room windows are huge and high in the Imladris style, and on a day like today it gives the space an airy, dreamlike quality. Gimli normally doesn’t prefer it here, opting instead to suck on his husband’s neck (and other parts) in the cozy, low-lit cocoon of the bedroom — but he’s a little tipsy with brunch-wine, and Legolas is warm and breathy and already wriggling out of his skinny jeans on the white suede.

“Look at you,” Gimli says fondly as he slides down the elf’s briefs as well. “Two Bellinis and a gluten-free waffle is all it takes, and you’re open for business, eh?”

He gives Legolas’ erection a teasing swipe of a finger, and Legolas giggles, neither confirming nor denying such claims, opting instead to arrange himself aesthetically among the emerald pillows. Gimli has seen and mocked the way Legolas arches his back for selfies on this very sofa many times, but he has to admit he appreciates the posing especially when it’s for his eyes only — extra points for pantslessness.

“You gonna do something with that mouth besides Bellini-shame me?” Legolas grins around where he’s biting his lip.

Gimli chuckles and obliges, dipping his head to envelope the waiting cock in front of him. Up north, Legolas runs his hands through his own hair for a few passes, then turns his attention to Gimli’s. Oh but he does love the feeling of those long fingers slipping through his curls. Gimli pulls up and off the elf’s rosy cock with a wet pop, and when Legolas moans low and grips firmly, the pull at his scalp shoots all the way down to twist so deliciously in his belly that Gimli has to dive back down again. While he laps and puffs hot, wet breath, Legolas’ fingers make their way to Gimli’s jaw, scratching at the soft, thick hair in that way that drives them both wild — for Legolas, it is being entrusted with the sole privilege of touching a dwarf’s beard. For Gimli, it is much of the same, and yet so much more. An indefinable feeling swells in his heart (alright; and in other places too) as Legolas gently lifts his chin to gaze into his eyes, expression soft. 

That tender moment is somewhat at odds with the next, when Gimli gathers all of his saliva to spit onto Legolas’ asshole, but, you know. They’re allowed to have layers. 

Gimli’s fingers play around in the mess he’s made, slipping and probing slightly inward while his attentions return to the blowjob he’s giving. Legolas is all but singing at the attention, and when Gimli feels like his own cock might write him a strongly worded complaint if it isn’t freed from his jeans soon, he removes his mouth and hands and moves to unbuckle his belt.

“Can his Highness tolerate the absence of his lowly serving-dwarf while he runs to fetch some lube?” Gimli asks, whipping his belt out of its loops with a magician’s flourish. 

Legolas puts on an exaggerated pout. “If I must,” he sniffs. He’s got a lot of put-on dignity for someone wearing only a wrinkled blouse.

Gimli can’t _not_ fuck him. 

But first he leans down to steal a kiss, a press of lips and delve of tongue, coming away with the slightest scratch of teeth. Legolas grins when he pulls away. 

“Wanna bring that Finwe box back with you?” Legolas asks. 

“The what?” Gimli is too horny to catch it the first time, busy as he is removing his tee.

Legolas hoists both his legs up shamelessly, holding them at the knee and giving Gimli a full view of his domain. The little wiggle is wholly unnecessary, but no less appreciated. “That blue dildo House of Finwe sent us. We could test it out if you want?”

Gimli, who has spent a great deal of his life pre-Legolas perfecting his swordsmanship, is wrong-footed enough by this _unprecedented_ request for Not His Dick that all his faculties stutter to a dead halt. The soft twittering of Athelas and Symbelmine in their cage is the only sound for a beat— one that lasts just a second too long.

“Oh,” he says, lamely, “I thought…”

Fortunately for him, Bellini-Legolas is also too horny to pay any sort of meaningful attention to verbal words, but he does manage to tease, “Look at that pout! No reason to be jealous, Gim.”

“Jealous!” Gimli tuts dismissively. He’s not jealous of some lump of BPA-free silicone... but he does dislike the way it stings to play second-banana to one.

Legolas’ pink cock bobs as he sits up, rising onto his knees to get a bit closer to Gimli’s standing height.

“Jealous,” he confirms with a smirk, and pulls Gimli down to kiss him with even more tongue than before. Well, if that isn’t enough to jump-start Gimli’s body again, Legolas’ hands at his nipples is. He pinches the little metal barbells between his fingers – doesn’t twist, but fondles them with determined purpose. A wonderful zing of heat shoots through Gimli’s body, soothing his slightly bruised ego enough to play along.

“What’s that thing got that I haven’t, eh?” he breathes into Legolas’ wet mouth. 

Legolas hums, kissing the corner of his lips before departing to suck his way down Gimli’s neck and chest, hands plucking at his zipper all the while.

“Hmmm. Speed settings?” 

Legolas barks out a loud laugh at the look of Gimli’s (mostly) mock outrage.

Gimli is just macho enough that he might turn this into a genuine spat, but then his fat cock is pulled free from his jeans, the heavens part in metaphorical elven song, and Legolas is pushing him back down onto the sofa, pivoting to straddle his face in a display of logistical coordination he possesses under literally no other circumstances outside the realm of sex.

 _Now that’s more like it_ , Gimli thinks to himself as he laps again at Legolas’ cockhead, long thighs bracketing his head now from this new angle. 

In the end, Legolas mouths off in more ways than one, and Gimli quite prefers it when they both keep their tongues and hands occupied with each other— it’s a win-win, as far as he’s concerned, and the weird gifts from House of Finwe go forgotten. Mostly.

—

Gimli is knelt in the tub, hands braced on the sides. He’s grinding his ass back onto Legolas’ cock, and the shimmering, vibrantly purple water goes _splosh splosh splosh_ around his thighs as he pants at the feeling of the thick, hard heat between his cleft. Legolas caresses his soapy lower back, gliding his palms like silk down his haunches, slipping under the water to grab his ass in rhythmic squeezes. 

“What a nice surprise,” Legolas observes, pretending that it is merely happenstance that Gimli should arrive home early from the University at precisely the same time he is slipping into a hot bath, and not the result of a carefully orchestrated snoop in the MTU faculty portal. Gimli also pretends; pretends he never saw the _Your Account Has Been Used To Log-In On A New Device…_ pop up on his work computer. What had started as a chat about the day while Gimli changed out of his work clothes turned into a conversation about dinner,— which turned into a lewd joke about dessert, which turned into kissing, plateaued at kissing for a bit, then turned into Gimli tossing the exfoliating poof across the bathroom and climbing into the tub alongside Legolas.

“Full of ‘em,” Gimli grunts, wishing he was full of elf cock instead, and the way things are going he thinks his chances of getting exactly what he’s wished for are pretty much in the bag. The soapy slip of Legolas against his taint is driving him mad, teasing with pressure but not giving enough of that friction he seeks. 

Legolas, ever the self-proclaimed empath (really this applies only to trees, which he fails to clarify when he brags about it on Instagram), seems to understand what he wants, peppering Gimli’s broad shoulders and neck with little nibbles. Gimli rumbles happily when a slim fingertip prods at his hole.

“You wanna ride me, mm?” Legolas asks around an open mouthed kiss to his favorite tattoo.

“Aye, I want that,” Gimli groans. 

“Shame I don’t wanna get out of the bath yet, then.” Legolas is far too mischievous to feign innocence, not that he tries very hard.

“Shame for you, fuckin’ criminal,” Gimli says, but his gruffness does not do much to belie the fact that he’s rapidly approaching the point where he’ll agree to just about anything in order to nut. 

“Not to worry, not to worry,” Legolas says, “I’ve an idea — there’s a waterproof vibe we got in that box —“

Just about anything — but Gimli is still a little (a lot) annoyed about the whole Dildo Slight situation, and so has decided that all House of Finwe products are forbidden on principle. 

“What? No, I want — just fuck me, elf!” Gimli complains. To illustrate this gentlemanly request, he leans forward over the side of the tub, hears the deluge of water sliding off his body as he presents his shapely ass. It’s not exactly an elegant gesture, but he doesn’t care. Class is not his intent here. “Legolas, you started it, you’d better finish it,” he groans. Legolas’ noise of appreciation from behind him is so striking that Gimli’s hand creeps down to tug at his cock of its own accord. He wants to be fucked silly — _“Now.”_ — and if that means he’s soaking wet and smelling of papaya, half out of a bathtub with chilly air pricking his glitter-crusted skin, so be it.

“Alright, alright,” Legolas laughs, and Gimli hears the rush of water as well as he straightens to reach his long arms over the side of the tub, the rustle of rummaging through the vanity drawer, the snap of a plastic cap.

Legolas prepares him quickly and sinks in, bent over Gimli as Gimli himself is bent over the tub. 

Gimli groans happily. Legolas has already got him so worked up he knows he won’t last long, but he intends to make every second count.

“Careful, don’t slip,” Legolas says by way of blowing cool air into Gimli’s ear, a decidedly ineffective method of ensuring one's husband maintains a sense of balance. He grips the porcelain. And then Legolas is moving, moving, the sounds of sex echoing off the tiles in the humid bathroom. Gimli comes soon with three sharp grunts, squeezing every last drop from himself into the shimmery water. 

Legolas’ own orgasm comes soon after, and when he sighs a kiss into Gimli’s temple and pulls himself out of his body, Gimli eases back down into the tepid water. Legolas goes with him, and they share an easy kiss that turns into many. They both know they’ll prune, and that soaking in lukewarm cum-soup is kind of disgusting— and yet they are unwilling to let this sweet contentment end.

Eventually though, Gimli can’t bear the thought of the mess in the tub, even if Legolas is gross like that, so with the compromise is two fresh refills of hot water and two more bath bombs later, it’s gotten rather late. Both are too boneless to even consider cooking, so they slice up a cheese plate and eat it in the kitchen with towels slung around their hips. Gimli has ocean-safe glitter stuck in his hair and beard for the rest of the week.

—

Office hours are 4:00PM-6:00PM, Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. 

When Gimli first set these hours, his intent had been for a nice wind-down, that private meetings in his own space might be a nice transition from work to home life after a day of hoofing it around from lecture hall to lecture hall. What he hadn’t considered at the time, ironically, was the students themselves, and the sort of chaotic energy they inspire in a person, regardless of how comfy your office chair is. 

His Novices think he doesn’t know they watch movies on their laptops in class. His Journeymen are largely clueless and routinely show up late and in their pajamas. His Mastery candidates...sometimes they are hanging on his words so intently, Gimli wonders if he should purchase a spray bottle for all the blinking they’re not doing. If his unders are lackadaisical, his Masters are the exact opposite — tenfold. The perfect storm of kinetic anxiety for pleasing their professors and a desperate desire to succeed. Neurotic, caffeinated, under-rested and over-worked.

That especially applies to Cennanith, an elf who Gimli is now waiting for, and who is — oddly, fifteen minutes late to her appointment and counting.

If it were anyone else, Gimli would be properly annoyed about the disregard for his valuable time. But Cennanith is as responsible as she is high-strung, so Gimli can only hope she’s perhaps off true-sleeping somewhere, if the dark circles under her eyes these past weeks have been any indication of the amount of work she’s been taking on. It would do everyone good, not least of all himself.

So, Gimli sits at his desk as 4:15 comes and goes. Then 4:25. Then 4:30, and in 45 minutes he will have his next and final meeting with another student, a dwarf named Grimbem who is a little too eager to please, but a nice enough fellow. Then he’s home free; all in all, Gimli is pleased to be faced with the sort of low-key afternoon he originally failed to create for himself.

He’s about to call Eomer in to shoot the shit when his phone pings and buzzes gently with a text from —

_That can’t be good_ , Gimli doesn’t think so much as he instinctively feel down to his bones. He’s absolutely correct in this assessment, of course, because right as he’s unlocking the device to ask him what he’s smiley-ing about, with a _zwoop!_ a sizeable video file is delivered.

The thumbnail is clearly their bedroom, curtains letting in filtered late-afternoon light. Looking at the file duration Gimli cannot for the life of him guess at what Legolas could possibly want to show him in a fifteen minute video of their own home.

He presses play. 

The shot of their bedroom ceiling wobbles and shifts, and then comes face-to-phone with, you guessed it, Legolas’ most intimate places. Gimli immediately scrambles to make sure his phone is on its lowest possible sound setting, but doesn’t stop the video. He does, however, take a beat to check that his office door is closed, takes another to note the time, but that’s about as far as his innate self-preservation instincts will take him, because the pulse of the elf’s muscles around a peek of pink silicone are hypnotic. Gimli imagines the feeling of those muscles tightening around his own fingers, he can’t help it.

Legolas teases himself for a while, then finally pushes the toy in completely. Offscreen, there is a high gasp as it whirs to life.

” _Gim_ ,” comes a needy whisper. Heat floods Gimli’s face.

He guesses Legolas must be on his back in bed, judging from the angle — not that the positioning matters all that much; there are far more pressing events at hand — or, to be more precise, there are more pressing events going on the other side of the city, on a completely different tier, in an apartment where Gimli tragically is not. It’s nearly agony to hear how Legolas is panting and groaning in that way that Gimli has an almost Pavlovian response to, to see how his hips are moving in slow circles like he’s begging to ride. The toy buzzing out of sight inside him, connected to the outside world by a hot pink wire, doesn’t offer him much relief in that regard. Not like it’s for lack of trying, though; regardless of how futile it is, still his hips strain and buck, his moaning sounding closer and closer to expressions of torment. Gimli knows exactly how those sounds taste, wants so badly to look up to see Legolas’ face, though the camera angle prevents him from doing that.

Legolas continues in this way for a while, occasionally reaching a hand down to fiddle with the settings, running that same hand along the crease of his thigh, tugging gently at the modest thicket of hair above his untouched cock. Gimli stares down at his phone with his knuckles braced against his lip. He only realizes this when he swallows and the sandpaper feeling drags his brain kicking and screaming into reality.

Just when Gimli is about to exit the video to demand the elf put himself out of his own misery, those long fingers reach down once again to turn the toy to its lowest setting. Gimli furrows his brow.

Then a new object enters the frame; Legolas slides a sleek black – thing – over the tip of his cock that, frankly, looks like a tiny escape pod (something Gimli is vaguely aware he should want for himself in order to blast away from his place of employ, but he is far too engrossed in the narrative at this point). Gimli is trying to figure out what the hell the thing even is when Legolas turns _that_ on as well, guiding it up and down his straining, lubed cock once and twice, slowly. From the tremor in his breath, Gimli knows he’s close, and while Legolas is so, so beautiful, while Gimli is etching every second of this video into his memory, he is a hypocrite who can’t stop the stab of possessiveness telling him that he, Gimli, should be the one wringing those sounds from between those soft lips. He wants to ease that stupid vibrator out of him and give his husband what he’s asking for, knows all the right ways to work his body, wants to be the one who brings him to the end.

Gimli clears his throat, presses his palm against the crotch of his pants and hisses. The building speed and pitch of his name in tinny moans coming through his ePhone speakers remind him in a panic to watch the clock – 

A sharp cry wrenches his attention back to the video; he’s missed it. 

Gimli can’t help himself. He scrubs the video back fifteen seconds and then hits play, so he can see the full progression up until the moment his husband shakes and trembles and comes apart in that way that often tips him over the edge as well. 

That is not the case now, but Gimli does shift uncomfortably in his seat, willing his body to stop being so damn warm, unwilling to acknowledge that the power to do so is quite literally one tap of a tiny digital square away. Legolas gives himself a few final strokes with the device, each one on a lower and lower power setting until at last he turns it off completely and places it off to the side. The bullet inside him gets the same treatment, a moment of coyly teasing the rim around his slick hole, and then shuts off and exits the frame. His torso is an abstract painting of splattered cum.

The picture shudders for a second as Legolas brings the camera up to his face, soft with release, cheek mashed endearingly against a pillow.

“How’s that for a product endorsement?” he says, winking at Gimli through the phone.

And then the video ends.

Gimli has just opened his office window in a desperate attempt to cool off when a jaunty knock announces Grimbem’s arrival. To his credit, he only asks if Gimli’s feeling okay once, but not before Gimli manages to politely stammer; “Excuse me, let me just finish this text to my husband and I’ll be right with you.”

It is the least productive, most excruciating meeting Gimli has ever had since he sat his first Khuzdul exam as an apathetic betweenager.

—

“I think you’d like it if you tried it,” Legolas insists over a basket of laundry. 

Gimli is at the desk in the corner, preparing for Monday’s lecture. He slips his reading glasses down his nose and frowns. The proclamation came out of the back end of thirty minutes’ companionable silence, but Gimli knows well enough what he supposedly would like if he only gave a try. He’s fully committed to digging his heels in, however, even if he hasn’t quite examined why.

“For the last time, Legolas, —“

“—Hold that thought.” Legolas interrupts, disappearing around the corner with a load of their darks. There is the clattering sound of the in-unit washing machine gushing water into the cylinder, the clang of the lid being closed. When Legolas reappears, his basket is full of warm athleisurewear, and some still-damp knits to lay out on the drying arial he has folded under an arm. He brings the scent of fabric softener wafting back with him. 

“Now, tell me, Mr Gloinûl,” he says, placing the basket down on the ottoman so he can set up the arial, “Why do you resent our newly acquired designer sex toy collection?”

Gimli scoffs.

“I don’t resent anything. I just think — there’s not much point in ‘em.”

“You seemed to appreciate the point of them the other day,” Legolas says. 

Gimli remembers that he still hasn’t deleted that video. With a regretful sigh, he casts a glance over to where his phone sits charging in its dock. He’ll do it later. Really.

“And I had a vibe before we met, you didn’t think that was weird,” Legolas points out. 

To tell the truth, Gimli had a lot left to learn when he’d first met Legolas; about the nuances of attraction, how attraction was different from desire — let alone how elves experienced either. Needless to say it had been a surprise, going through all the proper avenues of elf courtship, expecting a virginal, pre-wedding Legolas, and instead getting a Legolas who was both of those things, yes— but also one who already had preferences about the ways he liked to be fucked (and is actually a bit of a hedonist, as it turns out). 

“No, but that’s different,” Gimli both agrees and disagrees. “It wasn’t given to you by some stranger from marketing at House of Finwe Intimates, a company that _actually does have some controversy, by the way, I Palantir'd it._ ”

“Hm, maybe that’s why they sent it, to boost their image...“ Legolas says absently to himself.

“And _anyway_ ,” Gimli plows on. “You don’t have it anymore.” 

Legolas squints into the air. “No, I think it’s still around here somewhere. It stopped holding a charge and I threw it into a drawer. Would’ve been too small for me, anyway, after we got married.”

Legolas casts him a sly sideways glance. 

The smug twitch of Gimli’s lips likewise comes unbidden, but he has a point to make and is itching to make it.

“That’s what I mean, though. You’re married now, to me — you did the—“ he pushes away from the desk to wiggle his fingers in an abstract approximation of elven sexual awakening, “— for me. If you want anything up there, don’t you want it to be — _mine_?”

It’s something of a real-time revelation for him, too. He hopes at least that his tone doesn’t sound as petulant as he thinks it does.

Legolas lets the pair of leggings he is folding bunch in his lap as he peers over at Gimli. Of all the challenges a dwarf might face when interacting with an elf–– let alone marrying one–– the ability to stare through him has to be the _most_ confronting. Or, at least, the most annoying. Legolas’ warm, dark eyes seem to be searching him for something, serious in ways Legolas is not usually. Gimli could fall into those eyes, could be enveloped in their heat like velvet earth for a thousand years, and still allow himself to be bewitched for the rest of time. In a way, he’s not so sure he hasn’t. 

Then, just like that, the intensity is gone, and Legolas’ face melts into a sweet smile.

“Meleth…” Legolas coos.

“What!” Gimli is scarlet, instantly self conscious about this weird insecurity they’ve now just named together. 

The cooling laundry is abandoned as Legolas gets up and crosses the room with an easy gate. Not unlike a cat, he climbs into Gimli’s lap, heedless of the papers and laptop Gimli should really be working on instead of having this conversation. A cloud of fresh-smelling spun gold obscures his vision as soft lips press against his brow, then retreat. When Legolas sits back and laughs, it’s not unkind; it’s bursting with so much obvious fondness that it makes Gimli dizzy. 

“I assume you feel that way about me, too? You want only my dick inside you forever and ever, amen?” Legolas asks.

“We’re — well… yeah,” Gimli says. He almost laughs at his bluntness. 

“You’re such a traditionalist,” Legolas says. Then, as if despite himself, he leans back in to kiss his brow a second time. “But that’s part of what I love about you.”

His hands have come to rest in Gimli’s beard, not in the erotic way that turns them both into horny idiots, but in the quiet, intimate way that turns them instead into romantic fools.

Legolas toys with the twirl of Gimli’s mustache, disturbing the wax without a care, head tilt to one side. 

”When I’m away, do you touch yourself and think of me?” he asks.

Gimli considers. They have not been separated overnight often since marrying. Certainly with any boyfriend before, he would, but at heart Gimli is a romantic who loves to yearn. He finds now that he’s in love, the true self-gratification comes from the wait, and then the moment they reunite. He explains this honestly to Legolas, who listens and makes his thinking-face.

”I see. Would you ever want me to stop masturbating?”

”Of course not,” Gimli says.

“When I blow you, from now on, do you want me to sit on my hands?”

“Not if they’re otherwise idle, no,” This time Gimli does laugh. “Would be a waste of your hands.” He raises his eyebrows bemusedly as Legolas works through his process. To make up for the weird churning in his belly he gives Legolas a playful pinch.

“I’m only trying to figure you out!” Legolas laughs too, encouraged. “And when I fuck you from behind, don’t you also like it when I play with your tits?”

“—Wish you would stop calling them tits—“

“They’re just different sensations, Gim. Stuff you’re in the mood for. If I’m feeling horny and rub one out, I’m still me and you’re still you, even if you’re not physically here eating my butt when I want you to be.”

“What’s even your point?” Gimli is laughing full-out. He knows by now exactly what the point is, actually, even if the metaphor has clearly lost its way in the twisting woods of Legolas Lasgalen’s horrifying, wonderful brain. For better or worse, Gimli has had a long time to study the map.

“My point is —” Legolas says,” – that there is no shortage of ways I’d like to experience love at your hand, Gimli, and that includes those times it isn’t literally your hands. I want you. Wherever your fingers are, tongue, hips, arse, wherever your body is,–– or isn’t — you are the reason I have those wants. It’s you, Gim. Whichever way it comes to me, it comes from you.”

The setting sun is threading bits of copper into Legolas’ hair, flecks of honey in his irises. Gimli sighs softly, wraps his arms around Legolas’ torso, buries his nose in his sternum.

“If toys in bed aren’t your thing, they’re not your thing,” Legolas says, “I’m just happy I get to share that bed with you. I’m sorry for pushing.”

Gimli’s heart clenches with love for the billionth time since knowing the elf. He teases, he prods, but Gimli knows that he will always listen when it matters. Even when it turns out Gimli definitely is self-conscious about sex toys after all.

“I guess that’s what I needed to hear,” Gimli admits. “It shouldn’t’ve bugged me so much. I feel silly.”

“Don’t feel silly, Silly. You like what you like,” Legolas replies, then brightens. “My followers all really thirst after you, you know, they’re always posting the wet emojis in the comments when I humblebrag. Keep being such a stud and maybe next time someone sends us free stuff, we’ll get something you like! Maybe we’ll get some Lorienwear someday!”

“Forget the free stuff!” Gimli can’t stop his laughter. His shoulders quiver with the light feeling he now has, and he shakes his head. “Mahal. I suppose I should at least be grateful to your weird internet stalkers for this very strange heart-to-heart, even if they’re the reason you’re such a lunatic in the first place.”

“Hmmm!” Legolas noncommits somewhere over his head, “But if you ever change your mind, I was reading the reviews online and I really, _really_ think with the _Kinslayer_ I can make you cum like a fuckin’ fountain.”

Gimli pinches him again.

—

A month later, Legolas has not pressed the issue once, has not so much as even hinted that the word ‘dildo’ exists in his vocabulary. He wakes up, goes for a run, meets with Tauriel about doing some edits, comes home, vlogs. Sometimes he’ll cook, sometimes Gimli will. Gimli is hyper aware of the silver carrying case hidden away, but Legolas walks right past it every morning to get to his shoes and doesn’t even spare it a glance. He is sweet, in his own bratty way, and at night they touch each other in their marital bed, pressed together, legs tangled, breathing one another’s air – just the way Gimli likes it.

As the hobbits say: it’s pretty sus.

Legolas is bent inelegantly over a takeout container of Buckland-style drop-dumplings when Gimli calls him out on it.

“What’s your game, reverse psychology?” He asks.

Legolas makes a mysterious sound around his eating that ends in an up-tone, so Gimli can only assume his game is feigning innocence.

“You haven’t tried to seduce me with your implements in a while,” he accuses. He tries to make it sound like he hasn’t thought about the toys at least twice a week since their talk, and thinks he’s managed a pretty convincing impression of casual interest.

Legolas swallows, licks the pad of his thumb. “I’m not gonna _force_ you to use a dildo on me, Gim. Why, is my face covered in gravy erotic to you?” 

There is a chive stuck to his lip. It’s very cute, but that’s besides the point, because Gimli does not miss the sparkle in his husband’s eyes. Gimli is sat on the floor, and Legolas on the sofa, and he scoots closer to bump his shoulder against Legolas’ thigh. Despite the magnanimous dropping of the subject, Gimli can’t help but think the elf looks a bit hopeful.

“Very erotic, yeah, can’t contain my lust” Gimli agrees absently, “Only, I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

“Mmm,” Legolas slurps his noodles on purpose now.

“Stop that,” Gimli laughs, “I’m trying to have a vulnerable conversation here.”

Legolas shares the smile for being reprimanded, but grabs a paper napkin to clean his fingers. He turns his body attentively to face him, prim in every way Gimli knows he is not.

“You said you weren’t interested, and you seemed to mean it,” he explains simply. 

“I did mean it. But — I’ve been thinking,” Gimli says again, “You seem so keen on them, and I reckon you’re right about the stuff about using them, and, I dunno — I guess I’m curious. I’m willing to give it a try for you.”

The twinge of Legolas’ gentle smile turns into a full-on smirk.

“I wasn’t gonna force you to use them,” Legolas says again, “But I was hoping you’d come around eventually. Shut up, _stop_ , that wasn’t a pun, _you’re such a dad_.”

—

On another night, Gimli is beneath Legolas on the bed, rolling his hips languidly to press his growing hardness against his husband’s. They have been kissing for some time, so long that the flavor of Legolas’ toothpaste has long since gone, and Gimli knows that if he squeezed a hand between their bodies, the front of Legolas’ pajama pants would be soaked with precum. Legolas has his fingers buried in Gimli’s beard, and it’s a mystery of science how he can bend in such a way to both hump and kiss him, tall as he is. Gimli’s going theory is that he’s made entirely of cartilage like an octopus. How else does one explain the way he’s able to cling the way he does?

Gimli bites the elf’s lower lip, and it sets off a frenzied chain reaction starting with the temperature in the room suddenly skyrocketing. Their shirts are both a dear distant memory, so the time for pantslessness is long overdue. Legolas scrabbles to slide off Gimli’s heather gray sweats, and doesn’t even get them halfway down his thighs before moaning at the sight of Gimli’s leaking cock, bending to take it into his mouth, all the way down to the hilt.

“ _Mahal_ –” Gimli gasps, and the huff of air from Legolas’ nose is the only clue that he’s heard.

Legolas pulls back up, blinking a tear from an eye but taking Gimli in hand and giving him a few frisky tugs in the newly left slick. 

“Don’t choke yourself,” Gimli says, a little breathless.

“Haven’t yet,” Legolas replies, and bites hard at Gimli’s thigh when the dwarf blows him a noisy raspberry. Nobody is as good at goading Gimli as Legolas is–– but the same could be said in reverse, so really it evens out. 

They claw at each other’s underwear, and when they’re both totally bare and aching, Legolas sits up to reach for the lube in a somewhat jerky motion, looking lost without the pressure of the mattress into which he had been canting his hips. Gimli reaches for his wrist. “Bring back the box,” he says.

Legolas’ doesn’t need to be told twice. Gleefully he springs out of bed, cock bouncing with the motion, and as ridiculous as he is, Gimli admires the view as the elf rushes over to the walk-in closet and disappears inside. Gimli hears him snickering and the snap-crinkle of plastic shrinkwrap breaking open.

“Alright, mad scientist, what’s taking you so long?” He asks, stroking himself loosely. He has to admit, the anticipation is nice.

When the elf returns he has a not-very modest armful of items which he lets tumble down onto the bed. Gimli is about to comment on the enormous blue thing, but Legolas flops down beside him, grinning ear to ear.

“What are your plans here?” Gimli asks incredulously, looking down over the selection between them.

“Let’s find out.” Legolas leans in and kisses him, hot and filthy.

The lube tingles when it touches his skin, making his hair stand on end. Legolas spends time lovingly working him open with his fingers, layering the cherry-scented slick all along his passage more for the journey than the prep, at this point. It is a process they both enjoy, and an essential part of the foreplay. Gimli loves Legolas’ fingers, loves how careful and attentive they can be, how thorough, loves that push of pressure when they first brush his–

“There you are,” Legolas says in a puff of hot air that ghosts over Gimli’s nipple. He has been laying down kisses along Gimli’s sternum when Gimli gives a little stutter, tries to angle his hips to chase the tips of those fingers, to coax more attention from them. Legolas does give Gimli’s prostate a few indulgent moments of exploration, but then, cruelly, withdraws.

“Oi,” Gimli grumbles.

“Bup-bup-bup,” Legolas shushes him.

Gimli is about to protest further anyway, but refrains when Legolas splays out over his lap to reach for the very same bullet toy from his text message.

“This one’s for you,” he says— but instead of inserting it into Gimli, he makes efficient work of slicking himself up, easing it into his own body. Gimli slides his large hands up and down Legolas’ narrow frame as he watches with rapt attention the way Legolas’ eyelashes flutter, the way his mouth goes slightly lax as the toy disappears. Even so focused, he leans into Gimli’s touch.

“ _Ahhh_ –” he sighs, “–and there’s me.”

The pink cord is much longer in person, and ends in an oblong, palm-sized controller that sits unchaperoned in the sheets. Legolas leans down for a quick kiss, then turns to straddle Gimli the opposite way, as if his plan is to continue his attentions to Gimli’s body. However, as this endeavour is about trying new things, Gimli cannot help himself when he picks up the controller without prompting and turns it on.

A startled moan rips its way out of Legolas, and his hips snap forward and down of their own accord into nothing but air. He gasps and shoots an exhilarated look over his shoulder, thighs trembling, to which Gimli offers a toothy grin.

“You said it was for me,” he says.

Legolas reaches out to pick up a rubber ring. Gimli can’t quite see what he’s doing with it, but feels its smooth, soft material slipping onto him, down to the base. It’s fitted, but not tight, and Gimli wonders what the use is in it until Legolas retrieves that infamous electric blue number. The shaft is tapered and long, with a fat head at the end. It doesn’t look particularly life-changing, but it does look, in a word – sturdy. Gimli has to admit that he particularly relishes the way the head of it feels pressing into him, gliding easily in the lube until Gimli feels full in a way Legolas would never be able to on his own — it’s not the warmth of his husband inside him, but Gimli is gasping by the time he feels it nudge against his prostate, settled there by his husband’s skilled hands — and that feels pretty wonderful too.

Legolas’ ears are as pink as the plastic remote control in Gimli’s palm, but he looks back over his shoulder once more with smouldering intent. He works the toy in and out of Gimli with a few more purposeful strokes, then pushes it back in deeply, apparently to stay.

“This one’s for you too,” he says, and turns it on.

The effect isn’t as shocking as it apparently was when he turned on Legolas’ toy, but the vibrations are slow and steady, pulsing rhythmically inside of him, against him, building up. It feels like when Legolas massages him, and yet not. Stronger. Steadier. And in any case, Legolas’ fingers are free to be elsewhere now, one hand rubbing up and down his thigh, pinching and caressing the meat of it while the other strokes Gimli’s cock with the slickness leftover on his palm.

“Good?” Legolas asks, “Did I find it again?”

Gimli groans. He feels — amazing, actually. Stupidly so. It’s almost too much, but in the best of ways. Legolas turns once again and climbs his way back up Gimli’s body, gently pushing him to shimmy down the bed so he can sit on his chest. Gimli feels the vibrations of Legolas’ toy in his own ribcage where his thighs squeeze, and notices the pricks of sweat darkening the hair at the elf’s temple. He is using the moment to braid his hair back.

“And which one is for you?” Gimli asks, digging his nails lightly into Legolas’ thigh as he watches. He thinks about how that long golden rope is much easier to tug on than when it’s loose and flowing.

Legolas tosses his finished braid over his shoulder. “House Rules: You can touch anything you want but yourself.”

Quite honestly the massage Gimli is receiving in this present moment makes it challenging for him to decipher whatever his wants might be, to touch or otherwise. But, when in doubt…go with what you know. 

He brings his hands up to cup his husband’s skinny backside, kneading the flesh there before pulling forwards, rocking Legolas up until the rosy tip of his cock presses into Gimli’s lips. He darts his tongue out to capture some of the liquid there. Legolas purrs in approval, braces his hands on their quilted headboard, so Gimli sets to work licking and sucking. The sensation is all but overwhelming; the tingle of the lube smeared along his thighs and ass, the echo of vibration radiating from Legolas, the shift of the mattress beneath them every time Gimli blindly clicks to another setting on the control that drags all sorts of tantalizing sounds from Legolas. And most of all, the unrelenting pressing and pressing and pressing of the _Kinslayer_ inside him.

The scent of Legolas aroused is ten times as intoxicating as he has ever felt before; he urges the elf forward, as far as he can go, til his cock is tucked back into his throat and Gimli’s nose is nestled in his public hair. 

“Gim. Gimli, I love you,” Legolas pants softly, pulsing his hips in small motions, withdrawing almost fully, pushing back in again and pumping before finally pulling all the way out. Gimli opens his eyes to capture the way Legolas looks in this moment, to remember it forever. 

Legolas doesn’t smile down at him anymore; his expression _burns_. 

Gimli licks his lips, but the salty taste of him isn’t gone for long.

Before Gimli can blink Legolas has flipped once again, head to toe, bracing his knees on the pillow on either side of Gimli’s head. When Gimli’s cock is enveloped in wet heat once more, it’s almost too much, barely within his power to reciprocate, hands squeezing and cupping and sliding anywhere he can reach on Legolas’ body. Gimli tongues at the head, lets the heavy heat slide between his lips, lays wet, noisy kisses along the shaft, hollows his cheeks when he takes it in and sucks hard. Dizzy as he is, he is well practiced and precise; he knows that while Legolas dislikes his balls being touched, he goes _mad_ for those wet kisses pressed to the skin at the base of them. So much of this act is second nature to him, he lets his muscle memory take over as he becomes swept away in the tide, in the overwhelming, pounding heat, in Legolas.

He can’t watch like he wants to, not on his back like this, but he knows Legolas gives head like a starving man, lapping and sucking and smearing Gimli’s leaking cock over his lips and chin. Gimli knows what it looks like to have painted Legolas’ fair elven face with himself, how the sight steals his breath. His body quivers.

“Legolas,” Gimli pauses the path his own lips and teeth are on, turning his face to speak into the soft crease of Legolas’ inner thigh, driven mad by the pulsing and the tongue and the wet. “—‘M close.”

Gimli does not see so much as sense Legolas lift himself up and away. The whoosh of cool air dispelling the humid warmth around his neck and chest is just another overwhelming thing to add to his collection of Things That Will Make Gimli Expire.

He blinks, craning his neck. Legolas is kneeling down by his hips again, gently pulling at the pink cord of his vibrator until he sighs with the loss of it. The elf’s hips roll once uselessly, but then he’s back in Gimli’s lap where he belongs, where he fits so well, where the scorching heat of his skin burns as his hand reaches down —

Gimli had forgotten about the ring around his cock until this precise moment, when Legolas presses a button and it, too, springs to life: Gimli’s whole body tenses as he cries out at the feeling rippling through his shaft, and then the absolutely devastating feeling of Legolas easing down onto him, taking his quivering length all the way in. They both moan helplessly as Legolas sinks down. 

Gimli can’t– he _can’t_ – his hips snap up, jostling Legolas, but in a flash he has sat up, grabbed Legolas tight by the hips.

“Leg– I need,” Gimli is saying, but Legolas interrupts.

“Do it, Gimli,” the elf is heaving his breath, wide-eyed and wild. 

He loops his arms tight around Gimli’s shoulders and buries his face into the nape of the dwarf’s neck, rocking down as Gimli pounds up into him, punching out sobs, filthy words with a Sindarin lilt, _you, you, you_ , and still that buzzing, pressing, rubbing, full and tight all at once.

Legolas’ shout as he comes is usually what sends Gimli over the edge. Theoretically, that’s when it happened, but he doesn’t remember it. For a while he floats in and out of existence like an expensive pair of sunglasses, clinging to Legolas who is now on his back, bent in half with Gimli on top of him. The two toys left are still buzzing, making Gimli twitch in near-agony until they are turned off.

He eases the Kinslayer out of himself first. It’s something of a relief when it’s gone, though he keenly feels its absence.

“ _Fuckin’—_ ,” Gimli croaks incredulously into the ether.

“Can’t anymore,” comes the wobbly reply, “Am dead.”

Legolas lets his heels fall heavily to the mattress as Gimli creaks into a kneeling position, panting, pulling out with a slick sound. Their sheets are a twisted, soggy warzone.

“You’re not allowed to be dead,” Gimli says, “For one, you’ll want to gloat because you were right about something.”

“Hmm?” Legolas mumbles. His knees are still bent, peaceful hands folded over his belly.

“Like a fucking fountain,” Gimli replies. 

Legolas laughs helplessly, head lolling to the side.

Gimli crawls up the length of Legolas’ body to lay next to him, heedless that they are both facing towards the foot of the bed. “And for two; you must forgive me for being so obstinate.”

“Dwarf,” Legolas says simply, as if this is the answer to all of life’s questions both great and small. Gimli kisses him.

“And three –” Gimli continues, “Tomorrow we are going to think up the world’s most gracious thank-you note to send to your stranger from marketing.”


End file.
